


as certain dark things are;

by ultraviolence



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bondage, Codependent Siblings, F/M, Incest, Sibling Incest, allusions to underage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was the sea, dark and unfathomable, and he was the sky. It was the way it should be. Human AU, with fem!Norway as the heiress of a big company and Iceland as the spare. An exploration of their relationship as blood siblings, with a little extra on the side. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as certain dark things are;

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored, and this is the result. My old fandom, my old muse, one of my old OTPs. Sonja is fem!Norway and Eiríkur is Iceland. (I have no idea if they have canon names now, because I haven't been in the fandom for years, yo.) A disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, never have been, except in some far flung parallel universe where I'm Ctulthu's vessel, or something. I also am not Icelandic or Norwegian. I know that Astrid Lindgren is Swedish, though, but I selfishly want to incorporate her into this fic, somehow. I don't own her, either, and neither does the myths in this fic.

_“I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
 _or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
 _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
 _In secret,_  
 _Between the shadow and the soul_.”  
– Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda

 

**as certain dark things are;**

**I.**

They're waiting for boarding.

Feet touching, mannerism mimicking one another, people has long thought of them as twins, wouldn't believe it when her brother pointed out that they were five years apart in age. Sonja couldn't remember how life without her brother was. It was probably a good thing that human beings tend not to remember their early years in life. Since as far as she could remember, it was always her and him - or him and her, she's not sure which. She hardly felt the resentment older siblings felt when her brother was born - she was the one who encouraged him to walk, was the one who wiped the dirt off his face when he fell from his bike for the first time, was the proudest one when he graduated high school with honours. She taught him about girls and disappointment. She is certain that she would be the one he took to the dance, too, if that wouldn't attract too much unwanted attention to their relationship. It was always her.

It then becomes a certain kind of oddity that they couldn't communicate in an almost-telephatic way twins do, but they still understand each other unfailingly, even if Eiríkur's ego often gets in the way. And she knows that he'd much prefer his mind stays private, after all - the Fates dealt him both their father's free spirit and his particular kind of Icelandic nonchalantness. She favours her mother, as the firstborn, and therefore inherits her stability, and her reserved countenance. She'd liked to think that she inherits her wisdom, too, after a fashion. In looks, however, despite being alike in almost every conceivable way (-- _or was it the way they always carried one another with them wherever they go that spoke to people that they could have been twins?_ ), their colouring was different. Her brother has a sort of airiness (if not otherworldliness) to him, from which he inherited their mother's lighter, almost silver, blond hair, and her light blue eyes ( _the summer sky at dawn_ , she thought). Her own was a set of darker blue, like the North Sea, and her hair was a shade darker than her brother.  

She was the sea, dark and unfathomable, and he was the sky. It was the way it should be.

The speaker announced that the flight to London is now boarding. Eiríkur closed the noir crime novel he was reading (he minored in Literature, unsurprisingly) and put it away. He casts her a glance. She tidied herself, casts her hair over her shoulder (she's wearing it loose today) and took her things. It wasn't much, they were only in London for two weeks or so ( _meetings_ , she thought with a certain kind of resentment), and she'd fancied herself a practical woman, anyway.

"Do you need any help with your things, little brother?" She said to him in Norwegian, half-teasing, half-sincere, flat tone not betraying anything about her motives or intention. He once told her that she'd make a perfect crime novel villain. She told him that she might have started serial killing as a hobby. ( _Later, a certain Finnish spouse of their Swedish cousin told them, apologetically, that Sonja was the model for their cousin's serial killer in her bestselling new novel. Eiríkur just laughed._ )

"Always the considerate fair maiden, aren't you?" He replied in Icelandic, sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"I'm at least the fair maiden, Erik." She slid her arm around his, watching his eyes darken at the nickname. That was the intended effect. ( _He is proud of being at least half-Icelandic, the vestiges and descendants of the Vikings, like their father, but she is as unyielding and unchanging as the mountains of the country she called home. He was born and raised in stormy, fickle Reykjavik, but she was Norwegian, through and through. Her blood sings of its sweeping fjords and mountains and hills, and she was a Viking, too_.)

"The end of the world." He proclaimed dramatically, with a dramatic sigh. She allowed herself a small smile.

(Before they board the plane, she pulled him aside, and stole a kiss when nobody's looking. He blushed most beautifully.)

**II.**

Heathrow was a mess of colours and sounds. They fly first class, as they always do, but she felt extraordinarily tired. Probably because she spent the nights before preparing speeches and presentations. ( _She is a heiress, she cannot disappoint_.) Somewhere between Oslo and London, she fell asleep on his shoulder. He was still reading that noir crime novel. She let him catch a cab for them, and spent the way to the hotel in that state between sleeping and waking. He wouldn't have admitted it later on, but he kept her in his arms during the journey. She heard bits and pieces of polite conversation between the cab driver and her brother along the way, something about London. London will always be London, she supposed, like Oslo and Reykjavik (which she had seen pieces of in her childhood), and she wouldn't be missing anything by falling asleep. She stayed up long enough to get off the cab, carry her things inside and checks in at the hotel. ( _She felt not the slightest bit of embarrassment when she told the receptionist she had a reservation under the name Pippi Longstocking. It was her childhood, and she did it to avoid anyone who might recognise her_.) She wouldn't let her brother do it, despite his insistence, because he'd done enough for her, and she is an independent woman, if anything. The receptionist only gave them a cursory glance, despite her penchant for staying in the same hotel in Mayfair, and gave her the key.

She fell asleep without changing her clothes or taking off her shoes. Their suite is a world of its own and decorated with lavish things, but she doesn't really pay attention. She doesn't really pay attention to anything in this state, but she noticed that the smell of her brother - _clothes, perfume, skin_ \- lingers on her.

She fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, the easiest sleep she ever managed in years. 

(When she wakes briefly, her shoes and coat has been laid out neatly in a chair near the bed. She doesn't really complain, and fell asleep again straightaway.)  
  
 **  
III.**

She wakes up a couple of hours later. It's still dark, and it's quiet, if not for the muted sounds of a city that never really quite falls asleep outside. ( _London is an insomniac, much like_ _her_.) She faintly heard the sound of television in another room, and wonders, briefly, if her brother is still awake. She gets up and makes her way to the other room, feet padding softly on the carpeted floor. The door to Eiríkur's room is ajar just enough for her to hear the television, rambling on in the after-hours dead silence. She didn't call him - she just gently pry open the door, as she always does. She was about to offer him coffee if he's still awake (she did nice things for him directly every once in a while, despite her attitude to indicate otherwise), but it was just as she'd suspected: he fell asleep with the TV on. This has happened long enough that turning it off has become second nature to her, and she can identify that with the book by his side, he didn't really watch the TV, he just wanted some background noise. ( _He doesn't really like watching TV after all, he preferred reading, and he often fell asleep when he tried to finish a novel hurriedly_ , she’d noted.)

It must get very quiet without her around to tease him (even if he'd insist otherwise). She puts the book on the bedside table, turned off the light, and climbs up beside him. The dark and his warmth lulled her back to sleep.  
 

**IV.**

Morning slid in unnoticed. She wakes up with the light streaming through the curtains, and the space beside her ( _the space that shaped just like him_ ) is already empty. She scowled to herself for a bit, because she's not a morning person, and more importantly, she just lost a golden chance to tease her little brother. She made her way to the kitchen, but he was already in the living room, with a cup of coffee and another on the table in front of him. Judging by the lack of food, he only beat her to consciousness by a small margin.

"Good morning," He greets her in Norwegian, with a smug little smile on his face. Obviously, he thought that he'd beaten her this time. She made her way to the coffee, unfazed. "You know, you looked like you just ate a pedestrian under a bridge somewhere." It was an old joke, her and trolls. Normally, she wouldn't be fazed by such comments, but it was morning, for Odin's sake - she felt more self-conscious than usual in mornings, not to mention that she haven't had coffee yet. It was a dangerous thing, messing with Sonja before her morning coffee. Everyone knows that, including their parents. She gave him the most withering glance she can manage (and she can manage much, especially in mornings), smooths her hair, and sat down next to him.

"It's only by a small margin." She reminded him, and sips her coffee.

(She had an important meeting to attend that day, of course - the first of many such meetings for the next two weeks, but she took her time and comes in fashionably late. She's not just an heiress: she's also a queen, and she knows it.)

**V.**

She couldn't stand being too long without him. 

It's not that they were _codependent_ , per se - they led their own lives, most definitely, with separate interests and friends and whatever young adults do in their spare time (although she made it her business to know what he's doing, who his current friends are, and, most importantly, his girlfriends - and boyfriend too, for that one time - if there's any), but when she wasn't with him, she found herself wondering what he's currently doing and, something she wouldn't admit: who he's with. It makes her feel girlish and stupid, and, being his sister, she shouldn't feel so insecure ( _she is always confident but sometimes even she had her doubts_ ) - but that's the problem with their relationship.

She's not sure where _sister_ ends and _lover_ begins.

(He picked her up and although she allowed herself the privilege of being the superstitious one, with her weekly zodiac subscription and charms to ward off evil, she was much too practical to believe in true love. However, when she teased him for being late, and he told her in return that it's her fault for not adjourning the meeting sooner, she felt _something_. This time, too - when he allowed himself to hold her hand in public without feeling extremely embarrassed about it, and she's not the one to initiate it, she felt _something something something_ that might have been love. But she's not sure, either, where _fondness_ ends and where _love_ begins, and if it's possible, at all, between blood siblings.)

They shouldn't have been born this way. But she's not sure if their relationship would stay the same, had they were born as strangers and not brother and sister.

They were everything, she felt, and nothing.  
  
  
 **VI.**  

They had sex that night.

Sonja doesn't feel at all guilty about it. They had been fucking each other since he was 17 and she was 22, when they discovered that there was _something something something more_ about each other. She was 26 and he was 21 now, and although they both have their dalliances outside each other (she mostly had women because no men can compete with her brother), they still come back to each other at the end of the day. This is why she took Eiríkur with her when she could have gone alone to London - this was part of their weekly (if not daily) affair, and although she loses no sleep over it, she still preferred to keep it out of their parents' noses. They needn't need to know what they need not know, she believed.

"Sister," He breathed, somewhere between her mouth on his neck and his hands on her hips. He only called her that when they fuck, and she allowed herself a tiny smile. He pushed her away, just enough for their eyes to meet. ( _The room is dark, and his eyes are the only pools of light_.)

"We need to stop."

She observed his expression, his face, every minutest detail of it. How his nose curved like their mother's, and how his jaw shaped like their father's. His eyes looked serious enough, pleading enough, but not enough for her. Never enough to stop, completely and absolutely. She didn't say anything for the longest while, doesn't disentangle herself from him.

"Is that what you want?" She finally asks, her fingers trailing kisses on his bare skin.

"...Yes." Her question obviously caught him by surprise, but his answer didn't surprise her. _It's not the first time_.

She nods. "Then we'll stop." _After this,_ left unsaid, and she kissed him. She doesn't feel bothered.

After all, he'll always come back to her.

(He comes, later on, and collapsed on her chest. She wrapped an arm around him, tangling another in his hair. She hums an old childhood lullaby, stroking his hair, and lands a gentle kiss upon his brow when he fell asleep. It was silent between them; their breathing is the only sounds in the dark, even before he fell asleep. But then again, they never need words. _Words are cold language._ )  
  
  
 **VII.**

Sonja was certain about this: Eve chose to Fall.

She doesn't buy the whole religion hocus-pocus, of course, and it runs in the family because her father was a hardline atheist and Eiríkur was, too, minus the hardline part, but Sonja grew up with the stories (although she had more sympathy for the old gods, like her mother, than what she'd consider as Biblical bollocks) and she know very well the tale of Adam and Eve (-- _but who doesn't?_ ). She knows her tales, and she knows, just as well, that the Fall was meant to happen. It doesn't take a snake to make it happen, the same way that it doesn't take the sun to melt Icarus's wings.

Eve chose to fall, and her brother belonged to her, the way they belonged to each other, the way the tide was pulled by the gravity of the moon.

It doesn't take long before he returned to her bed, lips, arms. He doesn't apologise - neither of them does - but she punished him by restraining his wrists and not allowing him to touch her that night. He doesn't protest.

"You never felt guilty, don't you?" He said, not unkindly, somewhere between her lips on his mouth and neck and chest. She didn't say anything. They might have fucked each other for the last couple of years, but _she_ was the one who started the fire. She kissed him first and she undressed him first. He was always too shy to make the first move, despite what gender roles should have imposed by now, and especially so with her. She was a relentless sister, she realized; relentless in teasing him, relentless in pursuing him, relentless in loving him; and she left, in her wake, shoes too big for him to fill. She will not pretend otherwise, nor will she pretend that she didn't see the hesitation in his eyes. He might be an atheist, but he's always the one with the stronger sense of right and wrong, and she knows that deep down inside, he knows that this is _wrong_ , even when it felt so right. Even when it makes them feel complete, in a way previously unknown to them. And Sonja was also certain that she wasn’t alone, that her brother felt _something something something_ as well. All the things they could have been.

She let his words hang in the air, dead, and kissed him deep enough for him to try to pull her closer with his legs. Any distance between them is far enough, and they were always pulled towards each other, trying to end it, make it nonexistent. She, who always comes home at least once every week, despite her work with the company - their father's company - and he, who could easily satisfy his need to spread his wings by going to college abroad, but chose to stay in Norway with her. She doesn't have the privilege of freedom or choice. She was trapped in the labyrinth. But he has it, and he chose to forgo it.

He'd chosen to stay with her in the labyrinth, and be devoured. To love is to be devoured, and Eve chose to Fall.

(She let him kiss her this time, deep enough to erase any distance between them.)

Later, he comes again, and this time she was the one who collapsed on his chest, arms securely wrapped around his waist to steady him. He breathed her name when he came, and for a moment she was hoping to feel his arms on her. But it doesn't matter. He came, and she fell on his chest afterwards, feeling his heartbeat. They stay that way for a while.

She never answered his question, but he understood the answer. She can see it in his eyes. Words are cold language, and they aren't telepathic, but they never need words.

"I don't suppose you're done punishing me?" He cocks his head to a side as she pulls herself up to a sitting position. She was sitting on his torso, but she doesn't really care. She did it all the time. She responded to him by giving him her signature Look, but he just looked determined (instead of instantly wither like general _men_ , but her brother is not part of the generalities she'd imposed upon his gender) and shifts his weight slightly. She smiled, like a knife, her edges glinting in sunlight, and landed a kiss on his lips, slowly and softly. She let her fingers hover just above his cuffed wrists, touching but not releasing them.

"I think I'll let you stay this way for a bit, little brother." She always called him that, fucking or not fucking, and let her fingers undo the knots that tie his cuffs to the bedpost. She helped pulling him up to a sitting position, her hands never leaving his restraints. She let them trace circles on his wrists, watching him closely, watching her touch leaves goosebumps in its wake, like waves lapping upon the shore. He shuddered and blushed ( _most beautifully_ , she still thought). "I liked you better this way," She added, teasing, fingers bringing his face closer, another pulling his hand, closing the distance between them. He let out a half-protest, muffled by her lips on his, and struggled lightly with his restraints.

"Only because you're a control freak," He countered, with a certain kind of indignance that only younger siblings could muster. "Big sister." He added, and the glint on his eyes was as dangerous, was as deadly, as her smile.

(He is a free spirit, but she knows that he secretly enjoyed being tied down by her, and only her.)

"Is that a come on?" She challenged, her tone betraying nothing, fingers caressing the line of his jaw.

"Maybe," He almost-confessed, obviously struggling not to kiss her. ( _And obviously turned on - she doesn't stop caressing his face, immensely enjoying his dilemma and inability to just pulls her towards him_.) The glint in his eyes was inviting, challenging, equal parts challenging and vulnerable.

She yielded. She pulled him towards her and kissed him hungrily, her lips indulging in every curve of his lips. He was just as hungry as her. They were wolves, and they were devouring each other. The sun and moon does not matter.

The end of the world can wait.

(Her brother asked her, then, about breakfast, and she told him, with an uncharacteristically sweet smile, that she'd feed him with her own hands. His eyes darken the way they always do when he was equal parts mortified and angry. The blush came, soon enough. Sonja just smiled.)

She pulled his cuffed wrists above his head and fucks him again, and he came, harder than before, her name on his lips once again. She never once felt guilty.

(She takes off Eiríkur’s cuffs later on, but only after she made him beg nicely. It left a mark on his wrists, but she likes to think that this is what their relationship has done to them - it leaves a permanent mark on their soul, like a coffee stain on a table.)  
  
  
 **VIII.**

She leaves for a conference that night. He went back to his study groups and laboratories and neatly-categorised marine animals. Sometimes she wished that life was that easy, that her relationship with him would just be _either or_ , like the animals in his faculty aquarium. ( _He brought Sonja there once, twice, thrice, and they fucked a couple of times in the backroom, because he doesn’t want to disturb the fishes and especially not the octopuses. She only asked Eiríkur to keep his lab coat on_.)

((She quietly thinks of their banter, of the way he fell asleep above a textbook after an all-nighter, of the way his eyes lit up, like the sky when the sun rises, when he talked about something he loves. She quietly thinks about all this, and closes her eyes.))

Neither of them said goodbye, but they never did because they never have to.

(She loved him both in truth and in secret, in the dark place between the shadow and the soul. She loved him because she know no other way. She is the ocean, and the ocean devours the world, but the sky was her equal.)

* _fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and suggestions are most welcome! (Please forgive typos and minor grammatical mistakes.)


End file.
